


In Search of the Young King

by CaelumLapis



Category: DCU (Comics), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:14:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24698896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaelumLapis/pseuds/CaelumLapis
Summary: Luthor crosses the room again, pausing in front of Aziraphale with a sardonic arch to his brow. “Don’t be coy.”
Kudos: 8





	In Search of the Young King

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer is, I don’t own them, not even a little.

Sickly afternoon light peers cautiously around a battered sheet knotted at the window. The room is simple, a cramped space with a worn bed and bland walls scuffed in anger or boredom. Cement block and wood plank bookshelves are crammed with books by such minds as Plato, Aristotle, and Sun Tzu. 

On the shabby bed is a small pile of library books and notebook paper. One book has tumbled down from the pile to rest against it, worn spine displaying its title and author as A House of Pomegranates by Oscar Wilde. 

Beyond the closed bedroom door, three voices circle and overlap each other, sharp and angry. 

“No son uh mine ish gun’ read sis-shee books all day,” the masculine voice thunders, wheeling wildly around consonants like the driver of a fresh new sports car.

A youthful voice barks reply with the arrogant bravado known to freedom fighters, matadors, and young boys just past the age of twelve. “I will not live the rest of my life in Suicide Slums!” 

A feminine voice intercedes with a soft, indistinguishable request. The slap of a hand against skin answers it, followed by the thump of a human body meeting a wall. The door rattles briefly within its frame. 

“You’ll never leave thish place,” the masculine voice retorts mockingly. A creaking thump follows, this one louder and heavier. 

The bedroom door opens to a wiry boy with steely eyes and disheveled red curls. In the room beyond him, a man is sprawled face-down and partially on a couch, snoring loudly. His hand is wrapped around the neck of a bottle with ruddy liquid sloshing wildly inside. A woman stands quietly on the other side of the room and stares at him, the left side of her face an angry pink tone that is shaped vaguely like a hand. Older, equally colorful marks smudge her arms. 

The boy slams the door behind him and a heavy breath hisses out between his teeth. His expression is one of sullen menace. “I will leave,” he promises to the window and the knotted sheet, “on your back and bones if necessary.”

Another deep breath and he stares listlessly down at the worn bed, and the book resting against the stack. He sits beside it, fingers restless on the cover. The book opens at his request, pages stilling beneath his touch. He tilts his head in mild curiosity that grows steadily as his eyes move back and forth over the text on the page. He lifts the book in his hands gently, his eyes narrowing their focus. What he is reading is no longer Oscar Wilde’s story. Now it belongs to him, a young king with steely eyes and tousled curls.

~~~

The book shop is empty, with a dim and unfriendly light not unlike the eyes of a fresh new intern before the knowledge of training sets in and they get uppity. Shelves and tables are stacked and piled with various sizes of books, all of them aged well before the modern era. A wreath adorns the front door, and within the shop are similar decorations, even though it is weeks after the season for them. It is as if time halts here and has a cup of tea before moving along. The scent of literature lingers in the air, accompanied by floating specks of dust that are briefly visible in the lazy beam of light. 

The door of the back room is open, spilling this light and the occasional murmur of voices into the quieter front of the shop. While the sign has not yet proclaimed it closed, it should be noted that the sensible seeker of a rare novel would be likely to turn away. How unfortunate, then, that those who collect rare books are seldom sensible or dissuaded by the polite hints that a shop is closed. The bell rings once, dustily, announcing the arrival of one such collector. 

This collector is a man, or at the very least a man-shaped creature. His face has grown older, and wiser. His eyes are cunning, the expression of someone who is preparing himself for the negotiation of a very specific item, and intending to emerge the victor of this business transaction. His head is smooth and bare now, the only part of him exposed so freely. A dark coat, gloves, and various other forms of attire conceal the rest of him. One gloved hand firmly grips the handle of a metallic briefcase, as if he intends to die violently before parting company with it. 

As he steps inside, the man reaches up and bites the fingertips of his glove, tugging it from his hand as he approaches a bookcase. He glances toward the light of the back room and then back to the case. He begins to drag his fingertips over the aged books before him, and then plucks one from the shelf, seemingly at random. He lowers the briefcase to the floor, tucking it away at the side of the shelves. He removes his other glove and then loudly ruffles the pages, perhaps deliberately marking himself as an overly enthusiastic and novice book collector. 

There is a soft, startled sound from the back room, fading only as another man steps into the room. He is a fine-looking man, overly combed and ironed, with pale eyes and a solid jaw. He appears to be the owner of this fine establishment, as evidenced by his barely concealed dismay at the visitor’s manhandling of his books. A pause, as both men size each other up. 

“May I help you?” the one in the doorway inquires, as if he’s been practicing the statement for a few days during spare moments of boredom, and has yet to master having it sound genuine. Requests for someone to run along and skip gaily in busy traffic have been made with more warmth. 

“Yes, you may.” The answering voice is equally polite and cool. Its owner closes the book with vigor and a hint of amusement. The book is returned to its shelf, and the hand that held it is extended. “Lex Luthor.”

The man in the doorway casts an unfriendly gaze toward the extended hand, allowing it to wait for an uneasy moment before taking it in his own. “Aziraphale.”

They shake hands for a brief moment. Luthor makes a polite sound in agreement and then extricates his hand from Aziraphale’s grip with some difficulty. That hand retreats to the pocket of his coat, to nurse its wounds and no doubt plot vengeance. He strolls away from Aziraphale, glancing around the shop and brushing his fingers over another row of books.

He pauses at the shelf, turning in part toward Aziraphale, the light favoring his handsome face in profile. “You have an impressive collection of rare books.” His tone is conversational. 

Aziraphale makes a noncommittal sound in reply. It is a sound that wants this conversation to continue at a far more brisk pace, or to be concluded immediately. It is also a sound that speaks of Aziraphale’s complete lack of interest in the aforementioned conversation. In short, it is a sound that multitasks at a fevered pitch. 

“You have a book that I want.” Luthor’s conversational tone is gone, replaced by one that moves directly to the point and promises to be unrelenting. 

“I have many books,” Aziraphale clarifies, helpfully. He steps closer, leaving the glow of the doorway for the dimmer light of the main room. “Some of them are for sale.” His tone suggests that a great many of them are _not_ for sale, and the ones that _might_ be for sale are not to be parted with easily. 

“Oscar Wilde. A House of Pomegranates.” Luthor’s eyes gleam in the dim light as he turns to face Aziraphale. “First edition, signed. A water stain on page three, quarter of an inch below the top right margin.”

Aziraphale narrows his eyes. “Perhaps.”

Luthor crosses the room again, pausing in front of Aziraphale with a sardonic arch to his brow. “Don’t be coy.” He voices the last word as if it is a horribly embarrassing social disease. 

Aziraphale doesn’t respond to the bait, and for the briefest of moments, his soft and pleasant exterior cracks around the edges. Then it tucks away like the hand in Luthor’s coat pocket. They stare in silence for a long and uncomfortable moment. “I have it,” Aziraphale acknowledges finally. 

“Show me.” Luthor’s reply is steel, wrapped in the honeyed voice of a businessman who has years of experience with hostile negotiations. This is not a man who is familiar with refusal. Or if he is familiar with it, he has learned to thwart it at every available opportunity. 

Aziraphale makes a reasonable humming noise, and then speaks as if interrupting whatever thought prompted that sound. “I would, of course, need a reason to take you seriously,” he points out. 

The sardonic eyebrow is back in force. Luthor’s hand moves to escape his pocket, very likely envisioning Aziraphale’s pleasant jaw and an unpleasant meeting with it. His hand almost emerges and then slides back into his pocket, perhaps with a silent lecture on the gentlemanly art of not losing one’s temper without sufficient cause. “Of course,” he replies, calmly. “I require the same reassurance,” he adds, the gleam returning to his eyes. 

Both men pause, staring at each other intently. An impasse has been reached. The pause lingers, mingling with the fine scent of literature and the aroma of negotiations that are, for now, unsoured. 

“Crowley?” Aziraphale inquires, his eyes never leaving Luthor’s face. 

A muffled sound answers from the back room, the usual confession of someone who has been eavesdropping attentively and is now being called on it. A dignifying pause, and then, “Yes?”

“Case three, shelf two, fourth book from the left,” Aziraphale directs, and the glimmer in his eyes is anything but inviting.

“Er. Right.” Movement from the back room, accompanied by low muttering. A man steps into the doorway, book held casually in his hands. Even in this dark shop, he wears sunglasses and, strangely, they do not seem out of place. He leans into the doorframe, relaxing as if it is the singular purpose of his limbs. “Got it.” 

This one, Crowley, is sleek as a snake, with dark hair and fine cheekbones. His smile is slippery, one that would be given by a sincere and earnest salesman with a brood of hungry children and an equally hungry wife. He does not intend to trick you; it just turns out that way, through no fault of his own. 

Luthor is not pleased to see him, muscles clenching along the line of his jaw. Keeping his gaze on Aziraphale, he steps to the side and retrieves the briefcase. His hand, delighted to be freed from his coat pocket, promptly and aggressively grips the handle. 

Aziraphale smiles encouragingly and Crowley just smiles, as if he is an art project created by a child unfamiliar with proper smiles and their functions, who sketched Crowley, added a shiny smile, and left him that way. 

To these smiles Luthor adds his own, one reserved for ambassadors, politicians, and others who have angered him and are dangerously close to meeting an untimely and very messy end. Not by his own hands, of course, he lacks the calluses for that. Most likely by those hired on for the sole purpose of crafting messy and untimely ends. 

The briefcase is placed on a table, and all three man-shaped creatures move closer as Luthor opens it. Arranged inside, bundled neatly and sorted as only one with a healthy dose of obsessive compulsion could muster, are a very large number of bills. American bills, but those can be converted into an impressive number of pounds, given current exchange rates and foreign policy. Crowley hisses and then looks chagrined, as if he would blame the dog if he could find one nearby. 

Luthor gives Aziraphale a sidelong glance, one that slides over him in very suggestive ways. “This is all the reassurance you need,” he promises suavely, before the case closes with a snap of finality. Crowley wears an expression that is equal parts relief and disappointment.

“Indeed it is,” Aziraphale agrees, and if the contents of the case have moved him, it does not show. 

“Give me the book,” Luthor demands, and while it is mere inches away from begging, it is a very dignified group of inches. Crowley glances toward Aziraphale, who gives a brisk nod of agreement. Crowley snakes his way to Luthor and offers the book, along with a half smile that could become a full smile, or could just as easily change into something terrible. 

Luthor takes the book, palming it reverently and running his fingertips over the cover. He opens it with a gentle release of breath, the sound of a boy who has returned to the place that stored many of his youthful dreams. 

Silence, save the slow rustle of pages, and then Luthor glances back up, closing the book firmly in his hands. Whatever was opened with it is now hidden away again. “Half the contents of the case should be sufficient.”

“It is a first edition,” Aziraphale reminds, gently. “Signed.”

“With a water stain on page three,” Luthor counters, labeling an unfortunate defect politely and yet pointedly.

“Ah,” Aziraphale replies, apologetically, “But if you knew of an unstained copy, you would not have darkened my door.”

Luthor says nothing, and Aziraphale studies him intently for a moment. “Leave the case,” he suggests, as if reliving Luthor of an unwanted burden. “Take the book.”

A breath with a soft hiss, and Crowley looks embarrassed for a moment. Luthor eyes Crowley and closes his hands protectively around the book, a full and thorough cost-benefit analysis taking shape behind his expression. 

“Agreed,” he replies after a long moment to Aziraphale, although his face suggests that this was a painful bargain. 

Aziraphale rests a hand on the case and meets Luthor’s eyes without surrendering an inch. “Good day, good sir.”

Luthor glances upward for a moment, taking in a theatrically deep breath and rallying the troops for a graceful retreat. Mistletoe is above him, and the humor in this wayward piece of holiday cheer is not lost on him. There is an amused quirk at the corner of his mouth when Luthor returns his gaze to Aziraphale. 

The book vanishes into his coat and Luthor leaves the shop just as quickly, with the soft chime of a bell and a burst of chilly air announcing his departure. Aziraphale follows slowly, flipping the sign and locking the door with a reassuring clink of metal. 

“One of yours, dear?” Aziraphale murmurs and Crowley pauses, as if considering.

“Sometimes,” he concedes.

Aziraphale glances back at him. Crowley moves to the door, and together they watch Luthor fade into the shadows of London. “They all are, sometimes,” Crowley murmurs, softly. 

“And sometimes,” Aziraphale responds, equally quiet, “they aren’t.”


End file.
